Grand Olympia: Further Horizon - Chapter 37: Motionless
The destructive roar of Protathlitis rattled the entire arena, shaking dust from the cracked walls and drawing another wave of cheers from the phantom crowd above. The sheer force of the sound left the trio stunned if only for a moment.
Then, like a beast unchained, Protathlitis lunged. His talons tore into the ground as he charged, wings flared wide, eyes burning with fury. The ground beneath him cracked with each step. He wasn't running, he was stampeding.
Billy, anticipating the incoming storm, kept his cool. His instincts flared. In the split second before impact, he moved.
One fluid motion he flipped backward, his duster coat whipping around him. Boots kicked off the broken stones, body turning midair, Billy's timing was flawless.
Protathlitis shot past like a runaway train, missing his target entirely. His momentum carried him forward, clawed feet digging into the arena floor, leaving behind a deep trench and a thick plume of dust.
Billy landed on one knee, hand bracing the ground, his mechanical arm still glowing faint from the earlier shot. He cracked a grin, breathless but steady.
"Close one, birdbrain," he muttered, eyes locked on the champion, ready for whatever came next.
Here's a continuation of the scene without using them:
Protathlitis' blood-red eyes locked onto Musashi, seething. Rage burned behind that avian glare. His chest rose and fell with heavy breaths, wings twitching, claws curling, body bracing to lunge.
Musashi stepped forward without a word. His swords were drawn, his stance relaxed but ready.
Then came the charge.
Protathlitis struck first, a blur of muscle and fury. His steel-like arm swung down like a guillotine. Musashi slipped past it with a narrow dodge, wood slicing across the champion's rib as he moved.
They exchanged blows, fast and sharp. Every strike from Protathlitis carried raw power, sending shockwaves through the ground. Musashi danced between them, cutting and stepping, deflecting where he could, absorbing the rest with sheer will.
A claw skimmed Musashi's shoulder. He didn't flinch.
He spun, slicing the champion's thigh, leaving a line of shallow blood. Protathlitis growled, wings bursting open behind him as he leapt into the air and came crashing down like a hammer.
Musashi rolled aside. Dust exploded where he had stood.
The phantom crowd screamed louder, the energy rising.
Clash after clash, the two warriors locked into a rhythm. Power against precision. Fury against focus.
Musashi's breath came heavy. His body ached. But his grin?
Still there.
Protathlitis moved like a storm, his wings a blur of black, his strikes crashing down like falling towers. Musashi met him head-on, dancing along the edges of his fury, slashing and ducking, reading the champion's rhythm. But even he couldn't keep the pace alone.
That's when Lapulapu stepped in.
He said nothing. He never did.
The sound of his sandals scraping against the cracked stone caught Musashi's ear. That was the only warning. A silent pact was made in that instant.
Protathlitis launched a powerful sweep of his punch toward Musashi's side. Lapulapu intercepted it with a crash of his kampilan, his shield raised high. The two blades met with the echo of steel on bone. Lapulapu didn't speak, didn't look at Musashi, just held the block long enough for Musashi to spin behind him and cut across the champion's exposed flank.
It wasn't coordinated. It was instinct.
Protathlitis roared and spun toward Lapulapu, his wings spreading wide. He struck down with a crushing double-fisted blow. Lapulapu held his ground, shield braced, feet digging into the arena floor. The force cracked the stone beneath him but he held.
And behind Protathlitis again, Musashi appeared. This time his blade carved a line across the champion's back, shallow but stinging.
Protathlitis whirled again, enraged, talons slashing toward Musashi. The swordsman bent low, dodging under the blow. Just as Protathlitis raised his arm for a second strike, Lapulapu's shield slammed into his ribs, sending him stumbling.
The two warriors never exchanged words.
They didn't need to.
From the outside, it looked like choreography, perfect synchronization, like they had trained for this moment their entire lives. But in truth, they were only reacting. Sensing. Flowing. Each man was in his own battle, yet somehow part of the same rhythm.
Protathlitis's frustration began to show. He lunged at Musashi with fury, feathers flaring like flames, but Lapulapu was there shielding up, body solid. He didn't counter. He didn't attack. He just blocked. That was enough.
When Protathlitis turned to meet Lapulapu, a cut would already be waiting from Musashi.
Overwhelming as he was, Protathlitis was starting to slow.
Not because he lacked strength, but because his enemies refused to stand still. One blocked, the other struck. One dodged, the other distracted. They weren't getting in each other's way but they weren't cooperating either.
Still, they made it work.
Lapulapu stepped forward with a heavy thrust his kampilan angled toward the champion's hip. Protathlitis dodged and countered with a wing slash. The wind it carried sent dust spiraling but by then Musashi had already leapt into the air, both wooden blades crashing down on Protathlitis's shoulder.
The champion howled.
And the crowd of phantom voices roared louder.
Sweat clung to both warriors. Blood stained their arms and legs. They were tired. They had bruises, cracked ribs, torn muscles but they kept moving. Because to stop now was to die.
Protathlitis snarled, his red eyes flashing, and spread his wings wide again.
"You worms! Fight me one at a time!" he bellowed.
Neither answered.
They just attacked again. Together.
Protathlitis snarled, feathers rippling across his massive frame. Each beat of his wings sent out bursts of wind, stirring the dust and echoing like drums of war. His eyes, glowing embers of rage, weren't locked onto Musashi or Lapulapu anymore, not entirely.
They flicked toward Billy.
Billy stood near the edge of the cracked arena, his revolver low, steam still hissing from the muzzle of his mechanical arm. He wasn't grinning this time. His shades had slipped just a little, revealing the tense set of his jaw.
The champion growled. Not words. Not a challenge.
Pure, undiluted fury.
The cheers of the phantom spectators had disappeared the moment Billy's blast tore a hole through the illusion when rows of fake faces evaporated into ash and air. It wasn't just about power anymore.
To Protathlitis, Billy hadn't just broken the rules.
He had insulted the stage.
"YOU!" the champion boomed, voice layered with a chorus of wrathful echoes.
He moved faster than any of them expected. A gust of wind cracked outward as he shot forward, but Musashi stepped in his path. With razor timing, he brought a powerful side slash toward Protathlitis's chest more of a way to halt momentum than hurt him.
But Protathlitis didn't stop.
He kept charging, the force of the impact cracking the air around him. Ignoring Musashi he charges towards Lapulapu.
His taloned legs lashed outward and latched around Lapulapu's shoulders from above. The warrior had been mid-thrust, his kampilan raised to strike when the crushing grip slammed down on him.
Before Lapulapu could resist, Protathlitis took to the air, wings surging with explosive power. The sudden lift-off ripped a blast of wind across the arena, and Lapulapu was yanked from the ground like a rag doll, his shield dropping from his grasp as he struggled.
Musashi was unable to catch up to them.
Protathlitis soared upward, twisting as he climbed. Lapulapu, still held, his arms pinned against his sides by crushing talons, grimaced but made no sound. No panic. Just burning focus in his eyes.
Then Protathlitis spun in midair.
A single wingbeat flipped his body then he dove.
Like a comet from the sky, the champion drove Lapulapu down. The moment of descent was silent.
Then—
CRASH!
The arena floor exploded in a shockwave of stone and dust as Lapulapu's body hit like a warhead. A crater cracked outward beneath him, the stone cracking under the force. Stone slabs flew into the air. Billy flinched, shielding his face from the debris.
A second of silence. Then Lapulapu coughed, blood trailing from the corner of his mouth.
And still, he moved.
Protathlitis landed hard next to him, feathers twitching, chest heaving. He turned, eyes locked now entirely on Billy.
"YOU DEATH WILL BRING JOY TO THIS PLACE!" he roared.
Musashi didn't wait for a single second. His blade
flashed.
But in a blur, Protathlitis lunged one wing flared wide for balance, the other snapping down to launch him like a missile.
Musashi barely had time to blink.
A fist the size of his chest cracked into his ribs with a sound like a tree splitting down the middle. The world tilted. Then blurred.
His body lifted clean off the ground, weightless for half a second before slamming into the far wall of the arena. A spray of dust and broken stone exploded on impact, the wall cracking like glass. Musashi dropped from the impact point, one leg folded awkwardly under him.
He didn't get up.
Not yet.
Protathlitis exhaled through his beak, chest rising and falling. Blood trailed from the shallow slice Musashi had given him earlier, but it only seemed to fuel him. The feathers along his shoulders bristled.
Billy froze.
Now there was no one between them.
The champion turned, towering over the dust cloaked battlefield. His shadow stretched across the broken stone long, wide, and consuming. He walked with heavy steps, slow and deliberate, each one making the cracked floor groan beneath him.
His red eyes burned straight into Billy!
The outlaw adjusted his grip on the revolver still hot in his mechanical hand. He'd already burned his trump card, his arm was sparking slightly, his muscles aching from recoil. But he stood there, unmoving, lips curled in a forced smirk.
"You gonna lecture me again?" Billy asked, low.
Protathlitis didn't answer. He was already lifting his arm. His talons snapped around Billy before the outlaw could even react.
"Sh*t—" was all Billy managed before his body was hoisted into the air like a ragdoll.
The champion's wings flared, catching the air with a heavy snap. In a blink, they were airborne, just a few meters off the ground but enough for momentum.
Protathlitis didn't just fly; he dragged Billy across the cracked floor of the arena, his back scraping violently against the stone, a trail of sparks and dust following in their wake.
Billy grunted, teeth grit, trying to shield his head with one arm, the other sparking with failing mechanical energy. Blood splattered in a thin arc behind him.
Protathlitis circled half the arena like an executioner marching his kill and then, with a sharp beat of his wings, he kicked into the air.
He spun.
And hurled Billy.
The outlaw's body flipped through the air like a tossed coin, limp for a moment before smashing into the phantom crowd above the stands.
The impact shattered the ethereal image. The fake spectators ruptured into beams of golden light, dissolving like shattered glass as Billy crashed through them. Then in a second the spectators become whole again cheering their champion for victory
The champion stared at the stands, panting. His chest rose and fell in sharp bursts, sweat dripping between the plates of his muscles.
And Billy?
Still.
Motionless.